


cue the music!

by allonsysouffle



Series: your city is ignited; [3]
Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Grand Theft Auto Setting, Fake AH Crew, Gen, aka: the crew thinks they're funnier than they actually are, and are generally huge dorks, and love old music
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-23
Updated: 2015-07-23
Packaged: 2018-04-10 19:33:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4404587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allonsysouffle/pseuds/allonsysouffle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i> girls just wanna have fu-u-n. </i>
</p><p>the fake ah crew’s greatest hits. look, journey isn’t that bad. no, geoff didn’t pay me to say that. i swear.</p><p>{prompt from tumblr: lyrics}</p>
            </blockquote>





	cue the music!

**Author's Note:**

> apparently i actually am continuing my gta stuff! hope you enjoy this silly little oneshot~  
> as usual, you can find me on tumblr at lindsqyjones, and twitter at @saltwaterrayne !  
> -E

“What’s your favorite song?” Gavin asks, unprompted, into all of their earpieces, as he and Jack hover above the scene in a cargo bob. They’re raiding tonight, a rival gang. The ground team are quickly approaching their safehouse.

Michael says, “Now? Fucking really?” just as Ray replies, “Mambo No. 5,” without missing a beat. 

It’s quiet for a moment as they process this information, and Michael’s already face-palming.

Ryan begins to hum it under his breath, mutters “One, two, three four, five,” and it’s started and none of them can stop. And the shooting begins. 

“Aw, fuck, you shithead, stop distracting me, I’ve missed, like, two shots already,” Ray complains from a nearby rooftop.

“You brought it up!”

Gavin is reading the lyrics from his phone, and him and Ryan make an awful harmony together. Michael can’t help but giggle at the ridiculousness of it all, they’re literally descending upon one of the biggest gangs in Los Santos, and they’ve decided to  _sing_.

So they go with it.

They’re breathless from bloodlust and laughing and  _running_ , every stomp of their feet timed to match the halfhearted beat Geoff is boxing. Their knives are cymbals, and they crash against bone. Their guns are bass drum beats blasting holes in chests and thumping loud as their hearts. 

Michael thinks  _screw it_ and constructs an enviable air-guitar routine with his AK-47 while Ryan stares slack-jawed at the raw frat-boy talent he’s radiating. Ray and Gavin scream the chorus at the top of their lungs, “A LITTLE BIT OF MONICA IN MY LIFE, A LITTLE BIT OF ERICA BY MY SIDE,”, crackling through their earpieces, and Jack circles the cargo bob above them, whistling the tune, and it’s all so  _stupid_ and they don’t give a single fuck, because they’re terrible like that, because they’re beautiful like that, just the right amount of confetti on top of the pipe bomb.

“For the record,” Michael pants as they’re on the run from the rival gang’s muscle, “my favorite song is absolutely just as bad.”

“What is it?” asks Gavin, cooing like a teenage girl trying to catch up on the latest gossip.

“Toxic. Obviously.”

His freckled face drains of color as he realizes what he’s done.

“WITH THE TASTE OF YOUR LIPS I’M ON A-”

“Shut the fuck up, Ray. I’m serious. I will fucking  _shoot_  you.”

“You’re no fun today.”

 

* * *

 

“Alright, Michael, your getaway will be a motorcycle. You have one, right?” Geoff is drawing squiggly lines on a map, like he does every Sunday. Everyone pretends the words are legible. They’ll end up improvising anyway.

“Yup,” Michael answers, kicking his feet up on Geoff’s ten-thousand-dollar coffee table. “Dude, I got bikes for days.”

There’s a muffled laugh from the kitchen. Ray’s unmistakable stupid-idea-cackle. The one that means he’s about to do something  _really_  dumb.

 _Oh no,_ Michael thinks.

“Oh,  _no_ ,” Michael says.

Ray sprints out grinning like a madman, holding a spatula to his mouth like a microphone and gyrating his hips. Geoff almost spits out his whiskey.

“This dude named Michael, used to ride motorcycles,” he starts, devoid of any rhythm. He pauses, remembering the next line, then wiggles his eyebrows at the crew, who’ve amalgamated to watch the show in front row seats.

“Ray, no,” Gavin gasps from his spot on the couch, knowing what’s to come. “Don’t do this.”

Michael cringes. “Please. I’m fuckin’ begging you. I’ll give you thirty dollars to shut up.”

Ray only laughs harder, shouting the words as loud as he can. “Dick bigger than a tower, I ain’t talkin’ bout Eiffel-”

“And you know that from experience,” Jack comments dryly.

_Well, he’s not wrong._

Geoff smirks, and joins in, because just seeing Michael uncomfortable is making him want to lose all of his dignity. “Something… something, something… let me play with his rifle?”

“Hey, you got it!”

“Now that bang, bang, bang,” deadpans Ryan through his mask, completely monotone.

Everyone stops. They turn their heads. Jaws drop. Ryan bobs his head and mumbles the next few words before realizing that they’re all staring at him.

“What? Who doesn’t know the lyrics to that song? I listen to the radio. I’m totally chill with the cool kids.”

It’s silent but for Ray losing his shit in the corner. “Cool kids- holy _fuck_ - _cool kids! Ryan chills with the cool kids!_ ”

“Why are you all looking at me like that? She’s a talented lady!”

 

* * *

 

They’re driving home from a bank heist in a hot pink limo, not a cop on their tail, money in neatly-piled stacks in the trunk. All are abuzz with the rich red thrill of success, their heart rate pumping higher and higher like three cans of red bull have been injected directly into their veins.

Jack makes the wonderful mistake of switching the radio on.

“Just a small town girl…”

Geoff almost crashes the car in shock. “Holy shit, it’s my fucking song! Turn it up!”

Jack raises an eyebrow. “…For real?  _Journey?_ ”

“Fuck yeah, dude! LIVIN’ IN A LONELY WO-O-RLD!”

“Oh, God, why,” Michael laments, rolling his eyes as he quietly adds his voice to the verse. And they’re at it again, the Fake AH Crew, singing awfully and out-of-tune and rhythmless, but somehow they make it all part of their charm and it’s hilarious and breathtaking and dumb as shit, and they love it.

Gavin bounds out of his seat and wrenches the sunroof open, clambering up and out to shout their song to the city. Jack rolls down all the windows at once, letting the wind carry their voices. Ryan is laughing his husky laugh, his maniacal laugh, and it becomes a symphony- the song, the vocals, the underhanded regret-filled comments, the giggling, cars all honking, everything becoming a musical phenomenon they can only call anarchy.

“Hey, we got pigs incoming!” Ray warns, nearly hanging his whole body out the window. They don’t hear him. “Guys? Guys? This is kind of fucking important? Hello?”

The boys continue to croon. Ray rubs at his temples, nursing a headache.

“GUYS, FOR FUCK’S SAKE, THERE’S A HELICOPTER,” he shouts above the cacophony.

“Dibs!” Gavin yells, wielding his rocket launcher. “Hey bastards!” he bellows up to the whirring copter. “You’re gonna die to a Journey song!”

“They’d be luckier if we actually tortured them,” mutters Ray. “With knives and shit.”

Fifty-seven seconds later, scrap metal rains down upon the streets.

“Don’t stop believing, bitches!” Geoff screams out the window to confused passers-by. Ray chuckles, mumbling along to the words but keeping an eye on their six o’clock.

Turns out it’s hard to sing and shoot at the same time.


End file.
